


Indirect Confessions

by Welfycat



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Community: angst_bingo, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-28
Updated: 2011-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welfycat/pseuds/Welfycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek Morgan receives an envelope in the mail he is forced to make a confrontation he never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indirect Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Angst Bingo; Prompt: Secrets  
> Content Notes: Discussion of child abuse, semi-graphic depiction of injuries that were the result of child abuse.  
> Notes: References to the episodes Revelations and Profiler, Profiled.

Derek wants to look away from the pictures but somewhere he's decided that it's part of his job, part of who he is, to bear witness for his teammates. He knows they'd do the same for him, have done the same for him in the past. And, somewhere in him, he knows that he's pissed and angry beyond what words could possibly define but right now all he feels is the kind of lightheadedness and instability that he usually associates with being shot. Shock, the analytical part of his mind tells him; it's the same part that allows him to stare at gruesome murder scenes and dissect what might allow them to get into the same mindset in order to catch the unsub.

He makes it to the couch before he sits down, though falls down would probably be a more accurate description by the way his knees just give out. He should get gloves, should have gotten them first thing when he realized that the manila envelope addressed to him, mixed in with bills, junk mail, and a dvd from Netflix, wasn't ordinary mail. Of course, he hadn't realized that until he'd opened it and found four polaroid photographs inside, and then even then hadn't realized it until he'd turned the photos over and looked at the one on top. His instinct had been to drop them, even before he'd realized who the subject of the photos was.

Derek thinks that he should probably move onto the next photo, see the rest of whatever who had sent to him wanted him to see. He thinks that he should pick up his cellphone from the coffee table and call Hotch, even though he doesn't have the slightest idea of what he'd actually say. Clooney is giving a low pitched whine and has his head pressed against Derek's shin. Clooney has always been able to read Derek's moods from the time Derek had first brought him home, just like Derek knows Clooney's way of speaking just as well as if his dog had been speaking words. Right now, Clooney is anxious and wants to make Derek feel better. Derek is only rarely like he is right now, and only then after truly horrific cases; the ones that involve broken and blank-eyed children.

That line of thinking brings Derek back to the photos he's still holding and staring at, the envelope sitting on the counter where he'd dumped the rest of his mail before opening the one containing the photos. He briefly considers going back to the envelope to see if it has any clues as to who might have sent these photos, like he could just go racing down the front steps of the building and find the person still standing by his mailbox. He doesn't because he can recall the envelope easily; his address printed neatly, no return address, stamps in the corner and printed barcodes that mean the envelope had gone through the postal system. Part of him is furious that someone would send these through the mail, send them where they could get lost and wind up anywhere or possibly destroyed; it's a clue of some kind, that whoever sent these isn't attached to them like trophies, but he hasn't the slightest idea what it means. He also isn't so sure his legs will support him the few steps to the counter.

After dropping his hand down to Clooney's head, providing mutual reassurance that they're both alright, Derek lets himself see the photo on top of the stack for the first time. He's been staring at it for what feels like minutes - maybe hours - but he hasn't let himself process it yet or look at the contents beyond recognition of who he's looking at. The man was young, not yet a man in any sense of the word, and a quick glance down at the date that is neatly written in pen in the white space at the bottom of the photo confirms his suspicions. Dec 5th, 1997. It would have made Spencer just barely 16 years old.

Derek swallows hard, it's the first time he's let himself think Spencer's name in connection to the photo, but there's no doubt in his mind that it is him. A doctoral student by that time, but still thin enough that his ribs were clearly visible. His arms and wrists as thin as the rest of him, and his face was halfway hidden in the locks of hair tumbling forward. He was not wearing his glasses, though Derek isn't sure when Spencer first started wearing contacts, but Derek's eyes are more drawn to the way Spencer's head was tipped down and to the side and how his shoulders were more slumped than Derek thinks he's ever seen them. Of course, Derek can't think of the last time he's seen Spencer covered in bruises like that either; not even Tobias Hankel had left marks like that. The bruises and welts covered Spencer's torso and arms, and Derek can make out where they continued in the shadows toward Spencer's back. The only redeeming thing that he can find about the photo as a whole is that he can see the waistband of Spencer's pants, still buttoned and firmly around the kid's narrow hips.

He takes a slow, steadying breath, his mind fighting against the reminder of how he still occasionally calls Spencer kid, though the nickname has mostly fallen away in the last few years as Spencer had grown up and into the full role of FBI agent. He catalogues the background of the picture, even though Spencer was close enough to the camera to obscure most of what could indicate where Spencer was. A house of some sort, is Derek's best guess, the wall off-white and the barely visible edge of the floor revealed brown carpet. It's hard to focus on the features of the room when his eyes continually gravitate back to Spencer's half hidden face, trying to get some hint of emotion from him. He didn't look afraid, and Derek has seen Spencer in enough bad situations to know when he's afraid, but more blank and resigned, like he barely was aware of where he was or the picture being taken. Somehow that seems like it's worse than if Spencer had been afraid.

Derek knows that he's stalling, that he's avoiding looking at the next picture because these are things that he never wanted to know about Spencer. And, judging by the fact that Spencer had never given any indication that something like this had happened to him even when cases probably should have brought up memories for him, it was something that Spencer had never wanted the team to know. Derek's eyes waver to his cell phone again, the temptation to call Hotch and have the responsibility for this not squarely on his own shoulders is almost overwhelming. But it isn't what Spencer would want, especially if he'd been keeping this secret for years and years without managing to ping on anyone's radar. If Derek could do this himself, at the very least determine if the person sending these photos - for some reason he was still resisting calling the person an unsub - was still a threat to Spencer, and if not, why they had sent the photos. And why they had sent them to Derek.

Derek's hands acted of their own accord as he moved the top photo of the stack to the back; once he'd made the decision to investigate something everything else responded pretty much automatically. Sometimes he thinks that was the only way he gets through some parts of his job, and has wondered if somewhere over the passing of the years if he'd gotten desensitized to parts of it. He stares down at the second photo, feeling his equilibrium lurch slightly as his eyes focus on the details. He never got desensitized to some parts of it, no matter how many times he saw them played out in various ways and various places.

The date, written in the same tidy print, read "July 7th, 1995" and Derek quickly calculates Spencer's age to be 13, a little bit more than two years earlier than the first photo. The age difference was obvious, Spencer having yet to hit a growth spurt even though he was just as thin and lanky. Spencer was wearing his glasses in this photo, thick frames and thick lenses that almost did a better job of obscuring his face than the hair that still fell over his forehead in messy clumps. Derek wonders if Spencer's longer hair as a child had been what had caused him to resist haircuts so much as an adult, and what significance long hair held for Spencer, if it made him feel protected or safe.

He forces himself to stop profiling adult Spencer, even though that's exactly what he was doing with the Spencer in the photos. If he wanted to still be able to look his friend and coworker in the eye after this was all over, Derek needs to maintain as much professionalism and distance as possible and only work with what he can gather from the photos. Everything else, including speculation about the influence on Spencer as he knows him now, is off-limits. He remembers how much he hated the rest of the team profiling him, digging through his past and looking at his secrets, and he can't imagine that this is going to be any easier for Spencer.

Focusing his attention back on the photo, Derek looks at the injuries that Spencer was sporting this time. He's relieved to see that the bruising was not as bad, though the thin t-shirt Spencer wore could hide more than what was immediately evident. Spencer stood more directly to the camera this time, his chin tucked down against his chest and eyes directed down and away, but with his arms held out before him like he'd been asked to display them. There were long scratches, both on his forearms and biceps, dark against Spencer's pale skin. From the way the scratches weren't bleeding freely but hadn't quite scabbed over yet, Derek guesses that they'd occurred within maybe twelve hours of when the photo was taken. The bruising around one of Spencer's wrists and peeking out of where his shirt met his throat confirms his suspicions, the marks a deep red that were only just starting to darken into purple. He notes that the background is similar to the first photo, probably taken in the same location even though a different light source made the coloring of the entire scene brighter and more distinct.

Derek drops his hand back down to Clooney, letting the dog press his nose against his skin before he gently rubs behind Clooney's ears. He's trying to wait to see all the photos, all of the evidence, before he draws conclusions. It's getting more difficult, because the way the photos are trending in time frame and injuries leaves Derek with only a few possibilities of people he can blame for this. That seems to happen with cases involving families and children, Derek has noticed; the answer they least want to see or hear tends to be the right one. He gives Clooney one last pat, savoring the feeling of his body leaning against Derek's leg, before returning to his task. He moves the second photo to the back of the stack and braces himself to look at the third.

Bracing himself doesn't help and Derek looks away for a few minutes, concentrating on breathing steadily and focusing his eyes on the bright blue sky outside the window. The damage to Spencer's face wasn't something Derek had been expecting, nor was the way Spencer was sprawled in a battered armchair like he didn't have the strength to stand up or even straighten his body. The image brought flashes of when Spencer had been tortured by Tobias Hankel to the forefront of Derek's mind, the way Spencer had slumped down against his restraints when he couldn't hold himself up any longer and the way Spencer was actually looking at the camera this time.

Derek looked back down at the photo when he was certain that he'd cleared himself from the memories of Hankel, trying to be as objective as he possibly could. Spencer was without a shirt and his glasses again, though plaid pajama bottoms covered him from waist to ankle. His head was tipped back, supported by the back of the chair and he looked directly forward even though one eye was swollen and surrounded by dark red and purple. There were red marks on his other cheek, like he was also struck there and it hadn't left quite the same impression as the one around his eye. The early stages of bruising, not quite a day old Derek thinks, were evident around Spencer's neck and throat again, as well as a few on his arms and chest. More concerning to Derek were the older bruises across Spencer's torso, fading and yellowish green. This is the first time he's seen evidence of anything other than a single attack per photo. Spencer was staring at the camera but he seems unfocused with the same disorientation and disassociation that was present in the first photo. Derek glances down at the date, Feb 24th, 1993. Spencer would have been 11, not yet graduated from high school.

His chest is aching, but he places the third photo at the back of the stack and looks down at the fourth and last. He reads the date first: May 18th, 1990. Spencer was eight years old, and when Derek looks at the photo he decides that Spencer looked small for an eight year old. Despite Spencer's current height, and his thin frame that makes him look even taller than he actually is, Spencer somehow always manages to look a little bit frail and delicate even despite Spencer's best attempts to convince everyone otherwise. In this photo, Spencer looked beyond frail and delicate and more like a kitten that was clinging to life or a puppy that someone had tried to drown. Derek absently drops his hand down to Clooney again, telling his mind to cut out the animal metaphors and stop thinking about Spencer as he is now. He has to focus on facts and observations, not on the way all of his muscles have clenched up with the desire to do some serious damage to whoever had left Spencer looking like this.

In the photo Spencer was lying on a bed, though Derek can't tell whether he was unconscious or simply asleep. The covers were drawn back, just leaving faded blue sheets under Spencer. His body was nearly bare, a pair of briefs the only piece of clothing he was wearing and the bruises were darker and older than they were in the rest of the photos. This photo mostly showed Spencer's back and side, like Spencer had tried to curl up to protect himself from the onslaught, the one arm that was visible had bruises that indicated he'd tried to cover his head or face. Derek stares at the photo for several long minutes, trying not to let his mind provide the mental visual for how the scene could have played out.

Even though he has a few guesses about who might have hurt Spencer, who would have had access to him for just over eight years of his life, maybe longer if there are more photos somewhere, he still can't figure out what the person has to gain by sending him the photos. If the person wanted to threaten Spencer, wouldn't they have sent the photos directly to him? If they wanted to expose Spencer's secrets, why not send the envelope to the BAU where it would be likely that the entire team would see the photos? The pieces aren't fitting, not in a way that he can align with motives that are typical when evidence is sent to a third party or even to a law enforcement agency.

Derek takes the photos back over to the envelope and sets them inside, after he arranges them back in the order they were sent, and closes the clasp. He takes a minute to look over the envelope again but finds no further evidence to indicate who sent them. Handwriting analysis could be performed on the address and the dates on the photos, as well as fingerprinting, but without a sample to run them against they were practically worthless. And even if they did wind up going that route, Derek isn't about to walk those photos into the labs or the BAU without at least consulting Spencer. Just because Derek's own past had been dragged out during the process of a criminal investigation without his consent, didn't mean that Spencer's had to be also. If Derek can still protect Spencer from anything, and he's starting to think that protecting Spencer is one of those things that is easy in theory but startling difficult in practice, he can try to protect him from the pitying gazes of the rest of the team.

*****

It isn't until late afternoon that Derek actually shows up at Spencer's apartment building. He would have gone earlier, probably should have, but Derek doesn't know for sure that Spencer didn't have any plans for the day or that he'll even be home when he knocks on Spencer's door. Mostly these are poor excuses, he could have easily picked up his phone and arranged to meet with Spencer or asked him what his plans for the day were. Really, Derek had needed the time, first to drive over to one of the houses he was renovating and release some of his pent up anger while tearing up floorboards, and then to shower and spend a few hours working his way back to calm, rational, and supportive. He isn't sure that he is actually calm or rational just yet, he hadn't tested himself by trying to look at the photos again, but he knows that he can be supportive for Spencer. Even if it means he has to drive back to the house in the evening and take out another set of floor boards or maybe knock down the wall between the office and a spare bedroom that he plans on making into a second master bedroom.

Derek reaches Spencer's door before he even realizes that he's gone up three flights of stairs. He knocks and takes a step back, right where he can easily be seen if Spencer decides to check through his security peephole. From the way Spencer's footsteps approach the front door, the bolt sliding open with a soft click only seconds later just before the door is pulled open, Derek knows that Spencer didn't check the peephole or even have the chain on his door. Derek forcefully swallows his lecture as the door opens; he's given it before and probably will again, but it isn't the right time.

"Did I miss a call?" Spencer blurts as he sees Derek, immediately abandoning the door to go find his cellphone. "When is our departure time?"

Derek lets himself in, craning his head to watch as Spencer disappear down the short hallway into his bedroom at the back of the apartment. "You didn't miss a call, there's no case," Derek calls. He shuts Spencer's door, slides the bolt back so that the door is locked and hooks the door chain into the slot on the door.

Spencer reappears, looking confused. His hair is a little wild, his feet bare, and his glasses slipping down his nose like he's just spent the past several hours bent over a book or five. Judging from the books set out across Spencer's couch and coffee table, Derek would guess that's exactly what Spencer has been doing.

"What time is it? I was researching for a paper," Spencer waves his hand towards the books and a notebook that looks more than halfway full, "and I didn't realize it was getting so late. Were we supposed to meet somewhere for lunch? Dinner? What day is it?"

Derek smiles, unable to stop himself, mostly because Spencer is providing the perfect imitation of a scatterbrained professor. It's unusual for him, because Spencer is meticulously organized at the BAU and very aware of the progression of time and days because they're typically working against a clock when catching unsubs. "It's just before five, in the afternoon, on Saturday. And no, we weren't planning on dinner or anything this weekend."

Spencer turns, apparently having found his watch on the counter and is halfway through the process of fastening it around his wrist over the long sleeved shirt he's wearing. He looks at Derek for a moment, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses, and frowns ever so slightly. "Is everything alright?"

Derek is about to tell Spencer that of course everything is alright, not to worry and he'll see him back at the BAU on Monday, when he remembers the envelope he's currently holding. He looks down for a brief moment, realizing that he's left the silence long enough that Spencer knows that everything is not alright.

"What happened?" Spencer asks, picking up the cellphone he retrieved only a few minutes ago and looking at it like it should be giving him the answer. "Is someone-"

"Everyone is okay," Derek says as soon as he realizes where Spencer's mind is going, even though it's not exactly true. Derek isn't okay, and he's pretty sure that Spencer isn't okay either, or at least he won't be after they have this conversation. "Can we sit down?"

Spencer is frowning again, still studying Derek like he's the answer key to a test he's about to take. "Sure, just let me," Spencer says as he breaks into motion, gathering up the books from the couch and placing them into piles on the coffee table.

Derek quickly skims over the titles as he approaches the small sitting area; all research material about fringe society and violent crime. He sits in the place that Spencer has cleared for him and after a moment Spencer sits down as well.

"Would you like some coffee? I have a few new blends that I've been trying recently, some of them are very interesting though I have to question the practicality and chemical efficiency of some of the compounds." Spencer's hands fluttered briefly before he caught them.

Derek, now that he's looking, spies three coffee mugs scattered in the living room almost like Spencer has been playing hide and seek with them rather than just haphazardly putting them down when he's struck by a new idea that he has to write down at that very moment. "No thank you," he says politely. Now that he is here, sitting on Spencer's couch with Spencer perched anxiously next to him, Derek isn't even sure how to begin. He startles just a little bit, caught off guard by the sudden presence of Spencer's hand on his knee.

"Whatever it is, we can work it out. I'm sure Hotch and Garcia have resources that can help, if it becomes necessary. And, if you just want to talk, I can listen. I can do that," Spencer says earnestly. He is leaning forward slightly, his eyebrows furrowing slightly in concern.

Derek feels his throat catch briefly as he realizes that Spencer is trying to comfort and be supportive for him, that Spencer thinks that Derek is here asking for help. There's a moment where the guilt of what he's about to do nearly overwhelms him and he considers leaving and stashing the photos away where they will never be seen. He's almost positive that the person isn't a threat to Spencer anymore; the way the photos were sent doesn't suggest that the person intends to commit more violent acts. But Derek knows that he has to do this, maybe for entirely selfish reasons. His mind won't let it rest until he's sure this person is entirely in Spencer's past.

"I received this in the mail today," Derek starts, pausing to try and find the best way to approach Spencer while doing as little damage as possible. "It's pictures of you."

Spencer blinks, his mind already processing the conversation that is obviously different than the conversation he'd been expecting to have. "Pictures of me. As in, pictures that were taken without my knowledge, or cut out from newspapers, or what exactly are we talking about here?"

Derek should be wondering where Spencer gets this stuff from, but they have the same job and have both seen enough incidents of stalking that it is a valid concern. "No. Nothing like that. They're pictures from when you were a kid." He watches Spencer carefully, waiting to see if Spencer will make the connection himself or if there were enough photos from his childhood that he still won't understand what Derek was getting at.

The brief hint of intense emotion flickers across Spencer's face before he looks away. When he turns back to Derek his expression is blank, almost eerily so, and he holds out his hand. "May I see the photos?"

Derek hands over the envelope without comment. He didn't feel the need to warn Spencer about the contents when it is clear that Spencer already had a good idea of what was inside.

Spencer looks at the front of the envelope carefully, running his finger above the handwritten address and pausing to press his fingertips against the peeling edges of one of the stamps. He turns it over and opens the clasp, all the while keeping his expression absolutely clear.

Shifting forward slightly, Derek keeps his focus directed at Spencer. He doesn't want or need to see the photos again, he's sure that he'll be able to recall those images for a long time to come, but he does want to offer whatever support Spencer needs. It's almost guaranteed that they won't need to take the photos to the BAU, Spencer doesn't seem concerned about whoever sent them, and Derek is at the very least relieved about that. Maybe the rest of the team should know, Hotch would undoubtably say that it's relevant information, but Derek thinks that if Spencer has managed this long without it overtly affecting his on the job performance then it isn't something that everyone needs to know about.

Spencer looks at the first photo for a few moments before setting it down on the envelope that he's balanced on his knees. He goes through the others just as quickly, his eyes flickering over them and taking in all the details before he sets it down and moves onto the next one.

Derek notices that it's almost no different than when Spencer is looking at photos of the latest case, taking in details like probable weapons and elements from the background without ever focusing on how the body in the photo is a person. It's what they all have to do in order to function at their jobs, but Spencer has always had a particular knack for looking at the photos like they're puzzles he's piecing together. Though when he looks at these photos there's no sense of that interest or curiosity; Spencer is just taking a mental inventory of the images and placing them aside. There's no indication that he even recognizes the person in the photos, let alone having any type of visceral reaction to the contents.

"This was a few days after my dad left," Spencer says, still holding the last photo, the earliest of the set.

Derek moves his mouth to say something, any of the usual reassuring things that he says to give comfort to victims or families that he encounters on an almost daily basis, but nothing comes out. Nothing seems appropriate, nothing that he can say changes the contents of those photos, and nothing he can do will change that they're sitting in Spencer's apartment staring at photos of Spencer from when he was beaten as a child.

"She started taking the photos, after she came back to herself and didn't remembering doing it. The first time she kept holding me and asking me who had hurt me, and I had to tell her," Spencer stops and turns so that he's looking directly at Derek. "She took the photos because she didn't want it to happen again, because she wanted to remember and know what she'd done and so that even when she didn't remember who I was, she wanted to remember that she didn't want to hurt me."

The unspoken _it wasn't her fault_ hangs between them, Derek knowing that they both know that Derek will have to say something if Spencer says it. Derek swallows a sigh and spreads his hands out on his knees to prevent them from clenching into fists. He didn't want this to be the answer, even though he'd made the guess and weighed the odds long before he'd knocked on Spencer's door. "How many more photos are there?" he asks, because he needs to know even though he's not sure why. Maybe to reassure himself that it didn't happen as often as he's afraid it did, or maybe as a way of making himself accept that it's real by hearing Spencer say it.

Spencer closes his eyes briefly, the photo still held delicately in his grasp. "Eight, maybe nine."

Derek nods, not sure if that number is a good thing. It could be worse, their job was proof that things could always be worse, but Derek can't find it in him to feel that the number means anything other than it happened more times then what he's seen. He has so many questions, some of which he wants to ask and others he never wants to hear the answers to. He doesn't even bother with asking Spencer why he never told him or any of the team, doesn't ask if Gideon knew because any topic mentioning Gideon is like worrying at a wound that has mostly healed but will never stop hurting. "Why did she send them to me?" is what he settles on.

"She's met you, knows that we're friends. I talk about you sometimes in my letters," Spencer says. He stacks the photos back in order and slides them back in the envelope, taking the time to neatly redo the clasp and turn it back over. He's tracing the handwriting with his finger again when he continues. "Maybe she just wanted someone else to know. She wanted me to tell someone, sometimes at least. Mostly later when she wasn't so afraid that I'd be taken away. She loves me and wants the best for me, even if she wasn't always able to provide it."

There's nothing that Derek can really say to that. He knows Spencer has made his rationalizations, created an explanation that makes sense to him and still allows him to stay in contact with his mother, even though Spencer's reluctance to visit suddenly means something entirely different to Derek. "If you ever want to talk, I'm here to listen," he offers, even though he knows that Spencer will never take him up on it.

Spencer considers him for a moment, unspoken agreements passing between them that Derek isn't going to say anything to rest of the team and won't bring up the topic again without Spencer initiating it. "Thanks, you know I always come to you when I need to."

Derek nods, though he's not sure how much he believes that statement. Spencer comes to him or to Hotch when there's a problem they can solve, when he has a question that he thinks they'll know the answer to. Everything else Spencer keeps locked up tight until he's left without a choice. "I had to check, to make sure it wasn't something else. I had to be sure," Derek says, wanting Spencer to know that he hadn't walked in and stirred up Spencer's ghosts without a good reason.

"I know," Spencer says quickly. They both know what those photos look like from the perspective of a profiler. "Could you take them with you? They're not something I want in my apartment."

The message is clear, Spencer considers the topic closed, and Derek can respect that. He takes the proffered envelope, even though it's not something he wants in his apartment either. But he can do this for Spencer, keep his secrets and lock them up safe where they can't be found. He sets his hand on Spencer's knee in an echo of how Spencer had reached out to him earlier, squeezes his hand lightly before he lets go. The brief physical contact is reassuring; Spencer is alright and he's still there.

Derek stands up and walks to the door, aware of Spencer following behind him. "I'll see you on Monday. Use the door chain," Derek says mock-sternly.

"I will," Spencer says, the slight quirk of his lips meaning that Spencer will follow Derek's instructions just as long as Derek is in the immediate vicinity, and not a moment longer.

Derek leaves, pausing in the hallway until he hears the bolt slide shut and the chain clatter against the door. He walks down to his car and gets in, sitting behind the wheel with the engine off and the envelope on his lap. The conversation has taken something out of him; not the rage because that's still on a slow simmer carefully shut beneath the surface. But seeing Spencer so unaffected and unemotional, even when he was staring directly at the evidence of what he'd been through, had shaken something deep inside Derek. This wasn't what he'd imagined when he'd been driving to Spencer's apartment, not what he'd planned for. It was Spencer all over to be unpredictable and almost always in the opposite direction of where he 'should' be, but getting a close up look at one of the reasons why destroyed the illusion that it is just one of Spencer's quirky charms. Now it just makes him seem broken and detached, which is the second time today that Derek had seen his friend and teammate in a way that he'd never wanted to.


End file.
